Hostage
by WhiteGloves
Summary: The wonders of entering the 221B flat is you won't know what will hit you till it did. And even knowing doesn't make you safe. As the case of Mycroft finds himself in a stage where the roll of the dice can turn it into a good day or just another bad day. But knowing Sherlock's rolling can upturn everything.
1. Bad Day

***HOSTAGE***

by: _WhiteGloves_

A/N: A direct title! It can't get any obvious than that ;D

Off with this another fic! Because we all miss Mycroft Umbrella Holmes!

 _Let's enjoy Mycroft's day! ;D_

* * *

 **1: Bad Day**

* * *

On a good day Mycroft Holmes would find himself undisturbed in the comfort of his house, in front of a favorite classic movie, drinking a deluxe vintage wine with his sleeves unbuttoned and his feet resting on a Victorian footstool with the drapes of the room down; reciting lines that had been marked by the elegance of its generation which had been music to his ears it became a guilty pleasure—not that it required any effort at all, mind you— and satisfaction of finally being _alone_ after meeting with the _undesirables—_ which here would mean _people._

Nobody understands the privilege of being _alone_ except one Mycroft Holmes.

And then on a bad day Mycroft would find himself in his brother's flat surrounded by the last two people on earth he wanted to put up with—one a _terrorist_ so to speak who was waving a grenade on his left hand and a gun on the other while the other was none other than the unfortunate Mrs. Hudson who was fidgeting on the corner looking confused and faint but all the same steady as she stared at the unknown man and then to Mycroft who just came in without any invitation.

Mycroft, who only meant to wait for his younger brother in his flat after learning of his recent escapades and had instructed his chauffeur to bring him to 221B instead only to find himself in the scenario, wished strongly at that moment that he opted to stay home.

"I should have stayed." He murmured as he brought himself full in his feet and looked from Mrs. Hudson to the terrorist. " _This is going to be a long day."_

 _"Who are you!"_ barked the unknown man Mycroft had no problem identifying to be in his mid-30s and a previous service man of a navy brigade judging by his thick calloused hands tattooed with an anchor, burnt skin on his palm scaling up to his arms and that remarkable burnt scar on his right cheek but had been jobless for months with his unshaven face and uncut hair and with drinking problem.

"Mycroft…" whimpered the equivocal Mrs. Hudson whose eyes were worried but again, noted for her steadiness.

Mycroft didn't keep his eyes away from the man who looked at him offensively. Then as expected, the gun was turned in his direction which made the British leader grit his teeth. He was never afraid of being at the end point of a gun— _but to be the one pulling it._ This made him grip his umbrella close. All was well.

"It is quite alright, Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft turned to her slightly, only to see the man take a step forward aggressively—

"Who are you!?" the man repeated loudly, the flash in his eyes alarming. "Answer or I'll kill both of you!"

The scarred man waved the gun to and fro the odd couple, his eyes bulging.

"You would've taken her off had she spoke." Mycroft said in all seriousness with Mrs. Hudson throwing him frantic looks. "Look—whatever it is that Sherlock Holmes has done to you—it has nothing to do with that poor old landlady, so best let her be." He slowly raised a hand towards her direction, but kept his eyes at the man.

"Yeah? You come here barging in telling me she got nothing to do with this but she knows him! I kill her and Sherlock Holmes will come! That isn't enough?"

"Keeping her would be insubstantial; she has no relation to him whatsoever."

"Yeah? And you do?"

Mycroft wished he had stayed home all day as he took a deep sigh.

"I'm his brother." He said simply.

The man looked surprised for a second and then as Mycroft expected, received the full attention of the man whose gun steadied in his direction and eyes transfixed at him. Whatever has his brother done to the man? But then knowing Sherlock—it must be something self-avenging.

"A brother? Yeah, yeah that will work… I kill you and he comes to me."

"If only it was that easy."

"You!" the man barked at the landlady, "Get out!"

Mrs. Hudson took quick steps towards Mycroft and touched his arm. "Mycroft, what about you?"

"Worry about yourself, dear lady." Mycroft firmly said with a glance in her direction, "Empty the building, would you? And um…" he had to look around the flat again and sighed, "you might need new upholstery."

"Quit talking!" there were two loud gunshots in the air that got Mrs. Hudson shaking as she hid behind Mycroft who gave the man a very hard look as he stood straight. Gunshots in 221B was as common as breathing yet still… this man, he's not at all very smart is he?

To be firings guns when the British Head was in the area was _suicidal._

That—or he was plain desperate.

 _Desperate people take desperate actions._ Mycroft gripped his umbrella tight—one quick blast on the man's shoulder ought to do it but then what about the grenade? He can't risk it falling out of the window so best it remain while the pin was holding. Then would he tackle the man? Mycroft pressed his lips closed at the number of ways things could end when the man suddenly pointed the gun in their direction one last time and growled, "Take his umbrella! I don't want any funny movements or ideas."

Mycroft stopped breathing as his mind saw a number of ways things could end without his own weapon but the sturdy gun pointed in their direction made him surrender his umbrella to the landlady without further ado.

 _Now things have really turned bad._

 _He's had worst._

"Go." He whispered to Mrs. Hudson who gave a small whimper and left him standing there as he listened to the sound of her feet till she was no longer in danger. Mycroft took a deep breath, stood still with his chest out and broke into a fake smile.

 _"Good riddance."_

* * *

 **~TBC~**

 _A/N: Just a little pinch, dear Mycroft!_

Runs to three chapters if I'm lucky!

Also, I am deeply devastated for **London** -.- you are in my prayers!

 _Once again-_

 ** _-Thank you for reading!-_**


	2. Worse to Worst

***HOSTAGE***

by: _WhiteGloves_

 _ ***Mycroft in a pinch continued* ;D**_

 _ **Gonna be ugly ;o**_

 _Enjoy Reading!_

* * *

 **2: Worse to Worst**

* * *

 _New upholstery was needed what with all those cushions ripped with a jackknife and all._

221B was much a mess now that Mycroft stopped and thought about it. Even when the man decided to blow it all up, nothing would be miss for nothing was _worth saving._ The entire house appeared to be ransacked with drawers turned, papers and feathers from cushions flying everywhere and room doors all opened— _clearly the man was looking for something._

 _What has Sherlock taken now?_

Mycroft could hear the unknown man ramble on angrily about his younger brother as they both stood still in the silence of the afternoon; about how Sherlock had stolen something _precious_ from him, about how he had risked his life to acquire it and spent his whole life trying to preserve it only to be taken in the end by such an unappreciative _brute_ who appeared out of nowhere and destroyed his life. Mycroft would have laughed out loud as he would have if John Watson was the one narrating it but he was far too preoccupied by the man's gun. As noisy as the sailor was, he was making up with the steadiness of his weapon. Thank god for that for he also was carrying a _grenade._

Where do these people get such dangerous merchandise? He would have to check it later if he comes through _alive_ and the explosive intact.

So feigning a haughty look and refusing to look intimidated for he was not one to show such expression, Mycroft considered his options: that one he could take drastic measure that would require some physical activity involving his brother's favorite baritsu move where he would be able to successfully steal the man's gun and even render him unconscious if he was lucky. But then again he was not having such a _good day._ The success rate of the plan remains a question for who was Mycroft kidding when the unknown man was three inches taller and twice as big? Clearly it was the worse mismatch _—he couldn't even win against John Watson,_ he estimates.

Mycroft flexed his fingers and knew it impossible. He was never _Sherlock_.

The second option was to speak to the man— _control him via the mind_. Even Mycroft can do something as easy as brainwash to the weaker species. His sister had mastered this programming purely out of entertainment while Mycroft was only too inclined when the situation asked for it. This was one of those situations and he was already taking measure as he read the man from head to toe. Then his Secret Service can lay about the parameter and come— _something he was certain they were doing at the moment_ after hearing the gunshots.

The third option does not appeal to him less he had no other choice and that was to wait for Sherlock's back up. He knew his brother would come— _why wouldn't he when the fun came into his doorstep to his living room?_ He could just picture out his brother jumping up and down. Sherlock would be rejoicing too that Mycroft was there—that was how deep their roots go. In the face of danger—his big brother to be stuck in one of his most detestable situations—Sherlock would flip. But Mycroft does not and cannot relate to how their relationship worked, only of what will remain of 221B once his brother was done with it. At least Mrs. Hudson was sensible enough to save everybody and keep as far away from her flat as possible. With the addition of Sherlock who knows how the building would fall? Sherlock _never_ worked subtly. He likes the flash and the fire. Mycroft might as well have that upholstery ready.

So _no—_ waiting for Sherlock was not the smartest idea. Mycroft would rather challenge the fellow into an arm wrestle.

Or not now that he thought of it. With those red eyes of his, the unknown man surely had taken in the habit of drugs too. He would never win against one with such an adrenaline running in his vein. Another reason to be hateful of such _medicine._

Somewhere far he could still hear the man going on but Mycroft had fallen deeply into his mind palace—observing scenarios, choosing the best position possible inside the flat where the man would have a poor aim, the timing of tackling the man if it comes to it and the likes—when he heard the sailor bark orders at him again.

"Ruddy hell, answer my question!"

Mycroft didn't even bat an eye as he scowled.

"No, I don't know when my brother would come back. Do you think I keep tabs on him— a _proper_ _man_ that he is?" he put much emphasis on that and arched one of his eyebrows testily.

"Don't cha get smart with me—"

 _"I am the smart one."_ He muttered automatically before he could stop himself— the next thing was a gap difference was lessened and Mycroft was sure he could see the bullet inside the barrel of the gun by how it was pointed directly on his temple.

"Yeah, you're brothers alright—both cocky to the core—yeah I recognize that look. I've been livin' on the edge for long to see people and recognize their eyes. You already smell your death, don't cha? I could easily put a bullet in your head you know—just to teach your brother a lesson—"

"Unfortunately I've been trying the same." Mycroft's lips thinned as he ignored the gun point and look the man coldly in the eyes. If the man meant to talk for long then his chances of survival was increasing— "My brother's just a bad student."

"Your brother's a busybody who couldn't keep his nose off other people's business—!"

"Yes—that's him—"

" _I'll kill him after I'm done with you!"_

 _That's cute._ Mycroft nearly let it slip out of his lips but had read a dangerous sign of the man already on the verge of breaking down and finishing what he came to do with the way he aggressively shook the grenade on his face— Mycroft took a step back in surprise and a single gulp he didn't know had been stuck on his throat for a while.

Maybe he was the one not taking the game seriously.

 _Game? This was no game—this was terror campaign. One he was not willing play._

He licked his lips and looked the man in the eye once more.

"What has my brother taken from you?"

" _Your brother's a thief!"_

 _"What has he taken?"_ Mycroft repeated firmly.

But at that precise moment, Mycroft heard his mobile phone ring that made both him and the unknown assailant stare at each other and then on his chest where the phone was hidden.

"Answer it. I've been meaning to speak to your brother. No funny movements or your dead." The man gruffly ordered with the gun still pointed as the older Holmes stood stiffly and reached a hand on his chest pocket.

He found Sherlock's name on the screen and couldn't help but mutter a silent curse. About time for the consulting detective to be in touch. About time too for him to receive a scolding but it may not be the right time. Mycroft looked up at the man as he raised the phone to his ears.

"You're mistaken if you think you're holding him on any leverage. I am not his _weakness."_

He tapped to answer the phone.

"Sherlock."

 _"If it isn't a good day, brother dear—"_ came Sherlock's amused and certainly sarcastic tone that made Mycroft's forehead to automatically respond with a familiar frown and pressing of eyes—

"Good lord, _what do you want?"_

 _"You know why I'm calling. Apparently my landlady has become hysterical—"_

"What else is new?"

 _"Why are you in my flat?"_

"Again, what _else is new?"_

"Mycroft if you don't—"

Whatever Sherlock wanted to say then, Mycroft had no chance of knowing for just then two shots of gun fired out of nowhere —Mycroft felt a pang of pain, making him gasp in surprise—the phone fell on the floor with a thud. He shot a look up, his heart doing a summersault, to find the sailor upon him with the weapon and was in front of him after two steps. He had slipped the grenade in one of his pockets and ducked down to take the phone real quick and stepped backwards with his red eyes on Mycroft. _He was very angry._

Mycroft inspected the pain on his hand and noticed a long red gash at the back of his right hand. Then it occurred to him as he clutched it closed— _the man was no novice._ A well trained shooter. That complicated things even further for under the influence of drugs, no man should be shooting as accurately as this. Mycroft sighed heavily.

"Sherlock Holmes!" roared the man in vengeance, his voice filling Mycroft's ears— "eh? Yeah… yeah that's the reaction I want, you bastard." The man suddenly eyed Mycroft with the gun still hovering between them and that was when the older Holmes noticed a new expression on his face—the man was smirking. "Yeah, seems like I got my hands on the right person— _your threats mean nothing to me— he's breathing but I'll cut it short if you don't gimme back my stone!"_

Mycroft blinked in confusion. _Stone?_

A wave of dizziness hit the British Government Head that made standing impossible.

 _What about a stone?_

 _"You know bloody damn well how many people I've killed for that pearl— your brother cannot even amount to them!—Yeah? You think? What… What the hell do you mean by that? What national threat—?"_

He sharply turned behind him to the flat's window and stopped for the reason was clear—red and blue lights were blinking from the outside and as the man approached the window slowly while still hiding behind the curtains, he saw something out there that made his jaw to drop and his eyes to bulge out.

Sounds of helicopter rounding above could also be heard.

The man hastened to close the window and jump away from it—then as if remembering he was on the phone he went all out—" _What the bloody hell's happening out there!"_

Silence filled the emptiness of the response and that was when he remembered to look back—to that person he was holding in that room—to Mycroft Holmes who had gone still as the wall—

 _"Who are you?"_ he shot at Mycroft.

But at that moment, Mycroft didn't care who he was or who the man was.

How could he when a pool of his blood was already on the floor, his right hand holding his right side of what seemed to be a hole on his ever luxurious black suit just above the waist; a wound on his right side made by the second bullet that was fired not moments ago.

Mycroft heard the man shouting questions at him but he couldn't properly reply. His brain was ordering him to fall back… _fall back._

 _He's had worst days, sure… and they get repeated too._

* * *

 **~TBC~**

 _A/N: Get your ass there, Sherlock mate!_

 _Remember all of Mycroft and Sherlock's interaction on mobile phone?_

 _Add this to one of them ;)_

 ** _-Thank you for reading!-_**


	3. Worst comes to Worst

***HOSTAGE***

by: _WhiteGloves_

 _ ***Sherlock's Day anyone?* ;D**_

 **Mind your hearts! More brotherly er... *_***

 _Enjoy Reading!_

* * *

 **3: Worst comes to Worst**

* * *

 _Half an hour ago._

Sherlock was on top of his game.

It began when he had tracked down an interesting case that caught his attention upon reading the newspaper courtesy of the somehow usual criticism of his friend, John Watson. John had been muttering nonstop about the ridiculous amount of social media lingo and jargon that teenagers were using in this age that made communication absolutely impossible for the not so modern folks. He had sworn never to expose Rosamund to such bandwagon and keep her to the knowledge of the books and reliable internet sources. By this Sherlock wanted to know if John planned to keep the little girl by his side till she was of the right age—to which John replied that _no_ it was not gonna happen because it would mean staying in the closed door of 221B which mean Sherlock would be around too much—which in the end would lead his little girl _not knowing_ the importance of the _planets._

Sherlock didn't spoke to John for the last thirty minutes.

But then John went on grumbling about how even simple usage of the superscripts of the _i's_ and _j's_ and other letters were apparently change for a game play in the random column allotted for various reader messages _that made no sense._ Sherlock knew in the silence that followed that John was waiting for him to take the bait but when the consulting detective did not, the doctor threw the paper away and decided to go on pick up Rosamund from Molly Hooper's house.

Sherlock watched him go from the corner of his eyes; waited for five seconds to listen for John's footsteps on the stairs—and then bolted to the newspaper page where he was sure the doctor had been begging him to read. It took him a minute to find out what was on—and jumped to grab more recent newspapers to see if the same sender was there.

He wasn't wrong.

Apparently, one calling himself by the pseudonym _Piero_ had been giving some of the most remarkable _notes_ on _The Sun's_ column for the past week that involved interesting choice of words. To date Sherlock found an interesting phrase that got John steaming for superscripts he mistakenly took as modern lingo that read as _DĮĮ'NAAKI YĘ́ĘDĄ́Ą́ YOO'Į HASTIIN, ŁITSOOÍ._ Poor John cannot rely upon his knowledge cryptology because it seems he took his _Astronomy_ too seriously.

Luckily, Sherlock was never on such disadvantage as he was familiar with the coding he knew to be known as _Navajo code—_ believed to be known as one of the unbreakable codes during World War II. Why this Piero decided to use such a distracting code and one that would not be all too familiar with the modern age, and why he used a newspaper as a medium instead of simple email or mobile phone, Sherlock could only guess.

But two things were certain: that one, _Piero_ was asking for trouble by trying such an intricate code seemingly to be noticed _on purpose_ with the thrill of doing an action under the very nose of all the police force in London—which Sherlock took personally—and two, the message was as simple as making tea—

 _Quarter two past in the time see man in yellow._

Simple as the message go was the crying out loud _location._ Time. Where else in London could this be?

There were two possibilities: _Big Ben_ and the London Time Square famously known as _Piccadilly Circus_ which both were just 22 minutes apart, really. Sherlock made a pick in seconds and found himself waiting in Colvestone Cres by the electronic billboards for advertisement. Sherlock stood there with coffee at hand and oh-so-disguised with a dark hat as he waited for a man in yellow. _Anything in yellow,_ his mind doesn't mind.

Fifteen minutes later the second floor of a complex called _Time Square Serviced Apartments London_ was filled with three gunshots that sent civilians flying everywhere. Sherlock Holmes then came out of the main door unscathed and texting, his expression _annoyed._ Annoyance was the result of remembering just on time that there was another place called _Times Square_ at Whitechapel road which was 25 minutes from _Piccadilly Circus_. He had to take shortcuts and run all the way— he almost missed the man wearing yellow boots enter the apartelle.

The shooting killed the man in the yellow boots while his contact was unconscious courtesy of the consultant detective. Sherlock just knew where to send the Scotland Yard to track the man called Piero too after scanning the content of the papers they were carrying. The group he just thwarted happened to be one of the most notorious robbers of the city. It would have been a victory but Sherlock wanted to get into _Piero_ as soon as possible.

 _He was the mastermind who came up with the Navajo code._ The man with the audacity to challenge him it seemed.

In his further annoyance, however, he found the phone he was using to text ringing with his big brother's name on the screen. Sherlock dismissed the call and continued texting. It was followed by another call which Sherlock had no problem cancelling again.

It was on the third call that Sherlock gritted his teeth and almost thump the phone on his right ear.

"Don't you ever get the hint _?"_ he snapped in a tone more than he meant to. _"What?"_

 _"Having such a bad day, brothermine?"_ came a gentle response filled with sarcasm his older brother was used to.

"For Godsake, I'm busy, Mycroft _—!"_

 _"I've been updated with your recent escapade—is anyone dead?"_

"Why don't you come around and count like you're used to?"

" _Why would I? Casualties on any parties are never important—"_

"Then _fuck off_! I won't get my hands on my target if you're so busy telling me off! Go get a life—or better yet why don't you lose it; it's not much use to me anyway—!"

Sherlock hung up and switch the screen to his text message and then hailed a cab after seeing police cars stop on site and recognize him. Later he found himself standing inconspicuously outside another complex and spied upon an old man by a coffee shop, quietly reading the afternoon newspaper. He seemed to be waiting for a call. Without a doubt Sherlock labeled him as _Piero. Piero_ had left some hints on other newspaper pages of the environment he was around. It was such an easy feat to identify if you were Sherlock Holmes. Well, for one— _Piero was a name of a coffee shop._

Then came a call and Sherlock was engage in a verbal repartee with one of his networks when out of nowhere, a Scotland Yard police car stopped exactly where he was standing that got the detective shouting angrily for the next thing he looked up at coffee shop, the old man was running as fast as his feet could carry him.

"Dammit!" he cursed aloud as he tried to run after Piero—only to be blocked by Detective Inspector Lestrade who halted Sherlock's angry retorts— "What the hell—did my brother send you?! Get out of my way—!"

"Sherlock—we've got problems—I need you in 221B—now—"

Sherlock could barely avert his eyes from the running figure on the street when he sensed the urgency on the detective inspector's voice.

"Why?" he turned and looked him in the eye. Greg looked serious.

"There was a man who broke in to your flat carrying an explosive device and a gun—Mrs. Hudson's alright—"

That got Sherlock's eyes rounding. "What happened?"

"She was trying to call you but she can't reach you—"

Sherlock automatically turned to his phone and hung up on his latest call to dial John's number.

"Sherlock—it's your brother." The detective sighed ominously, making Sherlock pause and look up with a frown on his face. So did Mycroft send Lestrade after all?"

"What about Mycroft?"

"He was left there in the flat— apparently he came just in time when the man was threatening Mrs. Hudson—she was very frantic saying the man was looking for you— and your brother made himself a hostage instead to free her."

Sherlock stood straight as he listened, his eyes on the inspector which were getting rounder by the second.

"I still don't know further details but I got men there—hey, uh yeah, let's go."

For Sherlock had jumped on the police car and was dialing his brother's phone—decided against it and called Mrs. Hudson instead. It would be too dangerous to have a cell phone calling amidst a hostage crisis. Especially if the unknown assailant was too _twitchy._

But who could it be? Sherlock knew plenty of enemy that having his flat broken into so many times were nothing uncommon. Frankly he had plenty of advice from John and Lestrade to have guardsmen outside the flat but Sherlock wouldn't hear of it.

 _He was enough._

 _"Sherlock dear—you've got to help Mycroft—I don't think I've seen anyone as lunatic as that man—"_ Mrs. Hudson's voice was panic-stricken.

"Mycroft? Yes, he really is a lunatic—" _having himself taken like that, of course he is._

 _"No dear, the man with the gun and grenade—"_

"Are you all right?"

 _"I am, I was already nearing your drawer where you were keeping your gun—I was ready for him really—"_

"Of course you were." Sherlock chuckled.

 _"Then Mycroft came and your visitor got very angry. He was looking for you so badly I really think he meant to shoot me just to make you come around. And then Mycroft said it was unnecessary that I got killed because he was your brother. Mycroft told me to get everyone out of 221B after that and I did. Then I called the police and you—"_

"You saved everyone." Sherlock sighed as he kept a straight eye on the road. "That's more than enough."

 _"Your brother saved me and everyone. I don't really think he thought twice about it too."_

"Thinking twice is not my brother's forte."

 _"You have to get him, Sherlock. I feel bad leaving him but I don't like the air about when I did. It's like he really doesn't care what happens next?"_

"He never really did…" Sherlock answered after a long pause and consideration now that his thoughts were all on his brother. Mycroft was not one to put his safety first—neither of them did. He remembered the time that a drone gifted by his sister strayed in his old 221B flat—Mycroft had assured their death without much regret and spoke candidly of his concern about the neighbors living by and the people below the café house.

It was never their safety first. Mycroft was never _first._

Hanging up on the dear landlady, Sherlock dialed his brother's phone number. A short prelude of banter from both the brothers happened when Mycroft did answer—Sherlock sighed in relief upon hearing his voice that he practically sounded amused at his brother's worst scenario—

But the next sound he heard next that was not only from the phone almost made him jump out of the car that had stopped just outside 221B.

 _Worst comes to worst?_

A dead brother.

* * *

 **~TBC~**

 _A/N: What's our worst case really?_

Lucky fourth chapter? Shall be the last ;)

 ** _-Thank you for reading!-_**


	4. End at its Worst

***HOSTAGE***

by: _WhiteGloves_

 _ ***We just keep putting these two in danger* ;o**_

 _Blood all over! Warning for the graphic if there are some XO_

 _Enjoy Reading!_

* * *

 **4: End at its Worst**

* * *

 _There were two gunshots—_

 _"Mycroft!"_ Sherlock found himself shouting as he stepped onto the pavement with eyes onto the windows of 221B— _"Mycroft—! Dammit!"_ His brain was sending him alarm signals— _he had to act—to do something—_

A hand pulled him back roughly on the shoulder just as he was about to run all the way to that familiar dark door. It was Lestrade. The consulting detective was about to give him biting words when he heard another voice on the other end of his mobile calling his name—and Sherlock's eyes darkened, his ears burned as he recognized that villainous voice—

" _If anything happens to my brother I'm gonna come after you even when you're dead!"_ he spat hotly, his shoulders raging and shaking with Greg's firm hold on him not getting shaken. "I'll make sure you won't come out of that place _alive! Where's my brother!"_

At that point, Lestrade had tugged Sherlock to take his attention and pointed around the vicinity to which the consulting detective frowned—did Greg think he did not _see_ the force waiting just outside 221B? Who else would miss them—especially those members in black armed uniform disappearing inside 221B stealthily at the first sound of the gunshot? Sherlock doubted there were no people just outside his door—this made his eyes bulge and finally yank his shoulders from Lestrade—

"You've no idea the trouble you've gotten yourself into, _Beppo!_ "

For Beppo was the man's name.

 _"Yeah? You think?"_ his voice was slurry on the phone.

"Look outside." It was a distraction as Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "I'm going in."

"He's got a gun, a grenade and hostage. I hate to tell you this but unless you remove all his advantage I don't think anyone's coming out of the flat alive." Lestrade was giving him a hard look. "Worse is if he's already killed your brother, going up there while uncertain would only turn things for the worst."

"That's why." Sherlock had already decided. "I'm going in."

"Sherlock." His tone was full of warning but the consulting detective had already turned his back and began marching towards the 221B doors.

"Mycroft should be fine till I get there. He's resilient."

There was a sigh from behind him. "And if he's not?"

"Then I really don't think anyone's coming out of that flat alive."

Sherlock turned one final look and his man Lestrade was already in action. The consulting detective then sped up and as the Scotland Force made way for him and stepped on the open doors of 221B. Then up like a flash, he too was already outside his door with eyes on the black armed men already lined up by the stairs and pressed a finger on his lips. He didn't want any more moments wasted—he knew Beppo and his history with that pearl. A man with such idée fixe. He knew Mycroft was already in danger by this time.

So what was his plan?

Sherlock could think of none but the very idea of his brother shot to his death could only make him think of _going in_ and seeing him. Perhaps still alive. He could only hope.

"If you want your pearl, I can give it to you." He called out both on the phone and by the door. "I'm already outside the door." Sherlock heard movements on the other side as he threw his phone away and press a hand on the door. Things have already turned for the worst the moment Mycroft found himself in one room with a man such as Beppo— he who was never one to contain his excitement when it come to killing people for his precious pearl. Sherlock knew because at one point of his career, he was fascinated by Beppo's trails and the one reason for his crime—the pearl.

 _Such was the pearl._ But it was only a _pearl_. _A pearl_ noted for a bloody history. One of the reasons Sherlock was strangely attracted as well. He just didn't realize how things can sometimes play out of his hand. Well, out of his hand was exciting. Mycroft however was not part of his equation so in the face of the fun he sought—all Sherlock wanted to do was to keep that unlucky pawn out of _Samara._

Sherlock gritted his teeth and put a hand on the handle.

"I'm going to enter." He called quietly and when no response came, Sherlock turned the knob with a knot on his stomach. _Mycroft should still be alive…_

The scenario Sherlock saw when the door was opened was no less than he imagined: his room was turned to the last drawer with his couches ripped and tables turned; blood trail was on the floor with vivid sign of someone getting dragged off his feet. Following the trail he saw _them_ there on the wall— the large scarred man, _Beppo_ and on his arm was the wounded brother with a gun pointed on his head.

Sherlock stood still, his eyes not leaving his brother. Mycroft was conscious but it was too obvious the loss of blood was becoming a paramount concern. Beppo's eyes were on him that made Sherlock stare as it was the only thing he could do not to jump at the man. Sherlock felt so much violated then that a torture hall wouldn't be enough once this was over. Sherlock could feel his nose twitch and his head light. It was too obvious what he wanted to do. It apparently showed on his face.

"Don't you try anythin' funny Sherlock Holmes." Growled the despicable taker, "Or I'll scatter your brother's brains on the floor."

"I told you…" Mycroft breathed that got Sherlock's attention, " _not the head…"_

Sherlock and Mycroft exchange glances.

"You should have stayed in your room, stupid brother." He began a bit stiffly with his observation of his brother's wounded side not going unnoticed.

"You don't know how many times I've told myself that." Mycroft's amused tone of agreement only made the younger Holmes to look up at the hostage taker and _finish_ him. Beppo didn't seem to like the prolonged look that he pointed the gun on Sherlock's way.

"The pearl."

The younger Holmes didn't need telling twice as he immediately turned away. He crossed the room to his fireside, took the gun hidden under the fireside mantel which received a roar of anger from the sailor but Sherlock was unconcerned. For then he looked at his favorite skull— _and then smashed it into pieces without a second hesitation using the butt of the gun._

His anger needed the release as Sherlock ignored all the protest behind him and took that one singular dark pearl hidden in the wreckage of the skull. He heard a groan behind him as he raised it up and turned back to the men with the pearl in the air. Beppo was automatically entranced.

"Give it here!" he demanded as he waved the gun in Sherlock's direction.

"I don't think so." Sherlock raised his own gun and pointed it at the man and said ever so quietly, "Let go of my brother and you can have your pearl."

"You're not in position to demand, bastard! Give it to me!"

"No."

"Then I'll kill him!" the gun returned on Mycroft's head who gritted his teeth at the pain and eyed his younger brother.

"We don't do negotiations, brothermine…" Mycroft whispered through gritted teeth, the daggers in his eyes catching Sherlock for awhile as he saw the complete indignation there; but there were far more important things for the younger Holmes at the moment. For one, _that obstinate older brother._

"It's only a pearl." Sherlock answered quietly. "Now stop talking."

Mycroft seemed to take the advice as he swallowed hard, the profuse sweat on his already pale face making Sherlock frown and turn his attention to Beppo.

"Let him go."

"How do I know you'll really give me the pearl?"

Sherlock saw the blood seeping out of his brother's coat and contained himself from throwing the dark object.

"Don't make me change my mind." he found himself saying as he kept that one priority straight, "Another sound of gun and his Secret Service will take you before you can even touch your pearl. Now you take it and run or it'll be another gallows for you. You can have your pearl, so let him go and run. _I'll catch you later_."

"Then throw your gun!" Beppo snarled angrily.

Sherlock did—

There was a minute hesitation there, but then Mycroft was thrown on the couch and Beppo and Sherlock stepped fast in exchange that there was hardly any blink. The pearl was handed and Sherlock didn't care what happened next as he went to his brother's aid—the next thing he knew he heard a smashing sound at the kitchen window—and the force waiting outside the door flooded in and made back up calls.

But Sherlock was on his brother unfastening his tie and collar button. When the dark coat was removed and revealed the wound within, Sherlock found himself constantly asking himself even though he had shouted for help:

 _What do I do…?_

"Hang on, the medics coming, they're just downstairs." Sherlock assured his brother with words coming out of his mouth without even thinking, both his hands on his brother's wounded side, his blood on his palms.

Gunshots filled the air somewhere.

"You could've…" Mycroft was breathing fast and when Sherlock checked his pulse, he found it beginning to weaken. He shouted for those around him to hurry it up with the medical team. "…you could've tackled him… you let him escape."

"Shut up, they're here." Sherlock stood up to let the medical men take over but Mycroft was still beside himself as they began on his wounded side.

"I knew it was the pearl…" Mycroft suddenly breathed with a chuckle as he eyed his younger brother. "The Pearl of the Borgia's… _so you did find it…"_ he coughed blood.

"Stop talking!" Sherlock ordered but with his brother's eyes on him not wavering, he knew he had to answer. "It's a pearl, Mycroft— _just a pearl!_ We'll get another one."

 _"Since when…?"_

"Ages... I knew Moriarty was after it— now just—"

" _Didn't tell me…"_ his voice was becoming weak.

"Less news to you, isn't it, brother?"

 _"You spoiled…. boy…"_ he smiled but ended up coughing again as he closed his eyes that got Sherlock turning. Things began skyrocketing as the stretcher came and Mycroft's body was sped downstairs with Sherlock hanging by their side, angrily trying to make everyone to move fast, all the while clinging on those flickering eyelids of the slowly fading older brother.

"Mycroft? Don't you _die_ on me…"

A smile tugged at the corner of Mycroft's lips as they came out of the 221B door with all the lights from the outside— ambulance, police, helicopter—but then Sherlock noticed something fell out from his brother's open hand—and on the floor the detective found a grenade. Hastily picking it up with its secured pin, he nearly threw it to Greg Lestrade who had just come out to meet him—

"The emergency chopper's ready— what?" the Detective Inspector stared at the grenade and Sherlock's back.

Mycroft was brought to that waiting helicopter on the street, never mind all the police vehicles and onlookers and media clicking in for their photo reports. Never mind Mrs. Hudson who was crying on the side beside the café owner and those people Mycroft might have just saved. Sherlock jumped at the chopper too, watching two pairs of hands work on Mycroft's wound and the added oxygen mask on his face. The machine linked and a sporadic heart rate mixed in with all the noise.

"He's lost so much blood— we're losing him." one of the medic said as the chopper began moving and in seconds they were in the air.

"Mycroft—"

Another lurch and Mycroft was coughing blood again. But he opened his eyes and found Sherlock.

"We're almost there, Mycroft…"

"Grenade?" it was barely audible.

"Stop talking!"

" _I had a bad day…"_

"I know, now just keep your strength— keep it together or the queen will cry."

"She doesn't." he coughed again that made those around him hold his chest down. There was a short sigh from him as he added like an afterthought. " _Not in public."_

Sherlock looked up and saw his brother's blood pressure and heart rate on the screen and shook his head. Mycroft had closed his eyes again.

"Mycroft—" he was suddenly pulled back by another medic.

"Give him air—"

Sherlock pulled away from him and leaned towards his motionless brother.

"Any minute now, alright? So go somewhere calm— _go somewhere in that head where you can calm down. I'll get you out there okay?_ Just listen to my voice, Mycroft?"

There was that feeling—that dread Sherlock didn't knew was lingering at the edge of his consciousness.

"Mycroft?" he nearly shouted it down—

"Brothermine…" came Mycroft's whisper as he took a lungful of air, _"Do be quiet…?"_

And Sherlock heard that long beeping sound from faraway that got his guts turning.

 _What do I do?_

 _Did I just lose my...?_

Sadly, the dead line was not changing.

* * *

 **~The End~**

 _A/N: Worst. That bit was hard._

 _See you on the epilogue!_

 ** _-Thank you for reading!-_**


	5. Worst for the World

***HOSTAGE***

by: _WhiteGloves_

 _ ***Bows* ;o**_

 _ **Thank You for Reading!**_

 _Enjoy Reading!_

* * *

 **4.5: Worst for the World (EPILOGUE)**

* * *

John tapped his fingers on the table with Greg Lestrade opposite him holding a folder on his hand.

"Beppo was killed in action fifteen minutes after escaping 221B residence, the pearl on his hand was lost in the sewers, it was never found. Apparently he had made off with the Pearl of the Borgia's from the Venucci family for years until Sherlock Holmes retrieved it from him in what he calls a 'inevitable fold of events'. The Black Pearl had been missing for decades from the Borgia's family in Italy which was then found in Venucci family and got stolen by their maid who Beppo was courting at that time. Nobody knew about this fellow, Beppo until Sherlock, mind you. Not even the secret service. After that many people have tried robbing it from our guy but he was always one step ahead of them. He gets somewhat mental whenever he feels threatened every time folks about him find he has the pearl. It appears like he's really got something going on that makes looters suspicious. In total there has been seven murders under Beppo, four knifed, two shot to death and one found under a bridge with a bashed forehead that was accounted to this guy. It's been suspected all along that all seven have been murdered for trying to get the Pearl of the Borgia's."

"Eight." John Watson said with a sigh after he listened to Greg Lestrade's narration as they were cooped up in one of room for interrogation in the Scotland Yard Head Quarters three days after the hostage taking at 221B. Everything was already top news and headlines with the name Sherlock Holmes and the Pearl of the Borgia's ringing worldwide. _"Eight murders."_

"Well, we could have gotten more if he didn't get his hands on that grenade." Lestrade closed the file folder on his hand and placed it on the table between them. "Thank god at least… well." He looked at the doctor after a pause. "How's Sherlock getting on?"

John looked up pointedly at the Detective Inspector with his heavy eyes.

"Sherlock… you know him… he's been saying if Beppo survived he would've tracked him down to the end of the world and who knows what he would have done. I mean, he beat the crap of the American guy who attacked Mrs. Hudson. It could have been gruesome with Mycroft involved. You know whatever Sherlock says about him, he's still his only brother."

"Yeah, well Beppo was gunning for exactly that."

"Yeah? Lucky for him he didn't live long enough to meet Sherlock Holmes again after what he did. How did Sherlock get the pearl from him anyway?"

"I asked him that. He said he disguised himself in a pub where most of the retired sailors were staying in the North and had been on Beppo for some time. They had an argument over beer and then a squabble ensued by Sherlock. He nicked the pearl while nobody was looking and busy with fist fights."

"That's stealing isn't it?"

"I don't hear Beppo complaining, don't I?"

John took a deep breath and sighed on his chair.

"He's still hung over it. I rarely see him so pissed over a dead guy. Even Moriarty wasn't spared that much hatred."

"Even Sherlock can hold a grudge too. So what's he doing about it?"

"What else? _Annoy his brother to the grave_."

* * *

Mrs. Hudson was there beside him. Sherlock could hear her talking from far distant.

"I never really thought highly of him, you know? I first saw him after the court case with my ex-husband. You see, he was there outside the court standing all alone by a statue, I nearly thought he was one. He is a much disciplined gentleman. He was much younger but there was an air about him that made me single him out in the crowd. How did I know you were brothers? Well, after you came out of the court hall you walked right up to him and you two argued like any normal brothers would do. You were asking him what he was doing there and he wasn't very nice in responding either. And I thought to myself _they must be very close._ Then I recognized him some years later when he popped up just about my door and told me his younger brother was planning to rent my flat and told me to watch over everything that was gonna happen. I know about his presence, Sherlock dear. He did pay me too—to tell him everything happening to you and I told him right there that you just made an advance payment in the rent and everything you will break in the future but no I won't tell him a single thing. Because that's not how older brothers should behave you know? He should go right up there in the flat and ask you how you are doing. He keeps paying me anyways."

Sherlock chuckled. "Whatever do you do with the money?"

She looked at him. "How do you think I managed to make our walls very thick so your bullet won't go through? Anyways he also paid me for the last two years that you pretended to be dead that was why I never touched your things. I remember deciding to sell some of your belongings but he sent a short message telling me to leave everything. So see, he is a very thoughtful person after all. It's just hard to see it about him because he is never trying."

"Were you angry with him?"

"I was—many times, but it's just like with you dear, you don't feel it but sometimes you do make me angry. You and your brother. I am angry. Oh, especially when it was about John, you remember? I never did forget how he did not knock up on that door to check on you after Mary died and then he came popping again when you were already hospitalized just to know what's in your mind. It was very rude. I did call him 'reptile' just to get through him but I didn't think it effective."

"He never talked about it."

"Not effective?"

"No."

"So then I never rooted for him every time he visited and never give him tea. He just seemed pretty cold. But all of that had changed."

"After this incident?"

"Right after this incident. Well, they do say you realize the importance of a person when they're gone."

Sherlock looked far away into the distant sky. "I'm yet to find out."

Mrs. Hudson gave a tiny sob and touched Sherlock's arm.

"Well, dear, I'll be leaving you now with him… I left the flower. You'll tell him I visited?"

Sherlock nodded and the two of them looked back inside that quiet hospital room where they were both standing by the window, into the occupied bed where an arranged flower was set nearby, to that sleeping form of one Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock watched his brother breathe and nodded.

"I'll tell him."

"I'll come around again, hopefully I catch him awake. It's been three days."

Sherlock smiled at her and watched her go till she closed the door shut. She has been very warm and very supportive, just like her to be always around. But then the smile on his face disappeared as he turned a look at his older brother who was exactly the opposite of warm.

"She's gone. You can wake up now." The consulting detective threw himself on the nearest chair and put both hands together. "Why are you like this? She's been coming around for three days and you never come and face her. Aren't you too old to be shy?"

Mycroft Holmes opened his eyes quietly and sighed.

"Good god, I can hear you both. Imagine how she would be if I am already _actually_ listening to her?"

"She's beguiled, Mycroft. You did save her."

"I'd save anyone under that circumstance."

"She's showing her appreciation. And you can't keep pretending you're asleep for long."

"Watch me."Mycroft slowly sat up, winced a little for his right side was still numb after the operation and shot a look at his brother. "Tell her I received her compliments, but the next time she returns I won't be around. I'll be back on my feet and working."

"Which means tomorrow?"

"Which means later this evening."

Sherlock cocked his head on one side with a deep frown on his face but the concerned expression immediately disappeared as Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him.

"We're not going to be dramatic over this, are we?"

"I don't dream of it."

"Well then, I won't be hearing any protests—everything is okay, I'm a picture of good health and you got your new upholstery. I believe you also got your hands on the Pearl of the Borgia's again? I heard the detective inspector talking to you about it the other day and you disappeared on that chair for two hours—the only hours I didn't see you hovering around me."

"I threw it on the ocean." Sherlock replied. "Looks like its bloody history about is true. I don't want to tempt _fate_ again. _"_

Mycroft looked at him disapprovingly. "It wouldn't hurt to drop it outside the National Museum—"

"I threw it away." Sherlock said simply. _"It's just a pearl._ No point losing life over it."

"Very nearly did."

"Yep."

There was a ringing silence. Both brothers had a taste of that.

Then Mycroft gave a soft sigh. "Well, with this man, Beppo dead that makes eight people toll on its account? Not including its history before it reached the Borgia's of course, and the fact that family members in the Borgia family also had their fair share of _blood bath._ "

"It nearly became nine." Sherlock's eyes were pointed to which Mycroft merely shrugged.

"It didn't." There was a curt tone at that. "Now what do you say we save all other sentiments for later, brothermine? I don't think we're dying any time soon, are we?"

Sherlock didn't respond and Mycroft turned to him just in time to see his younger brother surveying him thoughtfully that made him sit straight.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes." He said testily, "It's been three days. God knows it's been three days. _You've been looking at me like that for three days."_

"Days like these make people really _think_. We've had our share of death threats, brother dear. Nothing as real as this." Sherlock reflected upon the blood on his flat floor and even though Mrs. Hudson did a great job cleaning it, the detective could still remember its fresh mark that got him _thinking._ "I can't help but think—"

But Mycroft has had enough.

"Then _don't._ _Thinking_ in our experience is by far _by choice._ If you don't mind it, it won't matter. Now get a hold of yourself before you get all sentimental again about your dear brother. Heavens knows we had enough to deal with. We're just going to get on and on with this that in the end we'll get the same rounding result— we're both alive and will face _bad days_. And in case we didn't survive—"

Sherlock gave him a dark look and the older Holmes had to press his lips for awhile before saying it anyways—

"That's something we have to work on our own. But let it be known: what happened here is a reminder that we're not expendable to one another. I understand, brothermine, so you don't need to give me gloomy looks like I will fade away if you turn away for a second. So please, go shred your new upholstery. And do keep your landlady. She might want to apply as my housekeeper if this goes on."

"Be nice to her. She's the type that never forgets."

"Oh I know precisely that so why do you think I'm pretending to sleep?"

But Sherlock, fresh from the experience of _nearly_ losing that _person_ couldn't be swayed.

"What will happen if one of us _does die?_ Take it as a curiosity, Mycroft."

The sudden question from the ever inquisitive little bother caught Mycroft off guard. Sherlock gave him a serious look—one which Mycroft won't be able to run from—like what he had been doing previously. Because Sherlock does want to know.

Mycroft did take it seriously as he surveyed his brother in turn.

"You have to figure that on your own. _Because I sure am not going to be the latter one to go_."

"Who knows—?"

"Not going to happen, Sherlock. And you've never had bad days on my watch. You do, however, only have few favors left. Do not waste one by irking someone who's got eight stitches on his belly."

Sherlock pressed a smile and was finally able to understand that no matter what he did, there was no way to turn his brother to be as emphatic as him just because of _one bullet._ Easy for Mycroft to disregard it all but Sherlock knew it was something in him that wasn't developed on sudden turn of events. _He's had it all along._ What a curse to bear.

 _So why not use it to its potential like any wise man would?_

"I do have bad days, Mycroft. I had the worst just recently." He had to look down the floor at that while Mycroft stared at him. "On top of losing Piero that is, the pearl… and other circumstances. Losing a brother."

He was delighted to see his brother squirm uncomfortably on his bed and knew he had found a new _nerve_ to touch every time Mycroft annoys him. Now he really believes people who tells him he was the only weakness of the British Government Head. Oh Mycroft. _What a curse to bear._

He looked up smiling in spite of himself and saw that Mycroft had understood. Just like Mycroft to be able to follow his train of thoughts. His smile broadened.

"Oh, brothermine, if you're going to be like that then I wouldn't consider this episode truly the _worst_ for the world."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

 _"In fact—not at all."_

* * *

 **~The End~**

 _A/N: Did you enjoy it as much as I did?_

 _^_^ glad to be of service to Mycroft-Sherlock-brotherly fan ^_^_

 _Till next time!_

 ** _-Thank you for reading!-_**


End file.
